


Starry, Starry Night..

by yuriplisetsky (ellipsesarefun)



Series: rip out my chest to bleed my demons away [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1970, Contemplation, Day 2, Drabble, Gen, Implied Character Death, It's... not what I expected to write, yuri on ice music week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsesarefun/pseuds/yuriplisetsky
Summary: “They would not listen, they’re not listening still… Perhaps they never will..”





	Starry, Starry Night..

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I just wrote.

The pasture is clear tonight, with the breeze blowing in soft whispers, sharing secrets with the dancing grass. Emil sees nothing beyond the horizon but twinkling dots from above. The lilt conversation of nature reaches him, and his skin tingles from the chilly air as his footfalls crunch against the verdant ground below him. From his periphery, Otabek walks with a guitar strapped on his shoulder, pace more languid and face seemingly blending with evening landscape.

They both sit at the center, watching the still life picture with wordless thoughts jumping around their minds and out to the twinkling canvas above. Otabek plants his guitar on his lap and plucks a chord, a familiar tune that matches nature’s whispers. Emil follows, voice reverberating with the strum and the wind in melancholic symphony.

 _“Did you know that the stars we’re looking right now were the stars that once lived billions and billions of years ago?”_ Emil asked once, a few years back on a night like this. He remembers a sigh beside him and the crickets chirping back yet never understanding human language.

 _“Sometimes, when I look at the sky, maybe if I could just squint, I could maybe find something from the past.”_ He continued, _“If I reach far enough, if I just stretch my hand as far as I could, maybe.. maybe...”_

Nothing comes after but another sigh from Otabek. Emil now recalls his friend’s question in that contemplative frown and realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, hasn’t provided any answer to his wandering thoughts.

A moment after, he asked,

_“Do you think, if people saw each others past, or maybe the present or their future, or maybe themselves as a whole, would they have understood other people a lot more? Would they have respected each other more or less? Would they have gone their way to be more nicer, more empathic for everyone else?”_

The creases in Otabek’s eyebrows grew. Emil did not know if he had upset him then, but the thought dies when the dark glaze in his eyes mirrored his own. Their gazes lingered on each other for another intermission of cricket chirps before Otabek set his vision back at the sky. Emil’s eyes followed.

“ _...I don’t know.”_   Otabek finally replied. It was an answer that still dissatisfies his pondering thoughts even to this day, but an answer nonetheless, _“Maybe they would.. but sometimes maybe they don’t.. but we can never force empathy on anyone.. That, I know.”_

Now as the music reaches the chorus, Emil reaches up and he swears he sees his mother’s smile and he fists his hand, as if he could grasp those honey sweet memories, but there was only air, her blood in his hands and her head on crumpled paper stained in crimson. His vision blurs and liquid trails down his cheeks, dripping on his shirt.

 _“Now I think I know, what you tried to say to me,”_ He sang, words crooked from his waterworks, _“And how you suffered for your sanity... And how you tried to set them free..”_ The wind howled. It kissed his face, just as his mother kissed him after she tucked him to bed.

 _“They would not listen, they're not listening still..."_ He closed his eyes, the image in his head a visage of his mothers cerulean irises, her soft, flowing ash blonde hair, and that endearing smile that shined his worries away. She had him engulfed in her warmth, softly mumbling the highlights of her day. His mind replays her favorite tunes, her excitement over her next novel to be published, and that little chest filled of post-it notes she stuck to his bed post before she left for work. The last image stops on the day they sat gazing at the stars, pointing at made-up constellations and telling tales of the old.

All of them were left painted over the swirling clouds above.

" _Perhaps they never will..”_ Emil finished, leaving only the last quiet strum from the guitar. The wind softened its whispers, and the crickets chirped louder as the image in his mind bleeds as bright as the stars above.

**Author's Note:**

> From Don McLean's Vincent.  
> Will edit this later..


End file.
